


Carry On

by GoodOldBaz



Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse & Related Fandoms, Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 16:04:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18167273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodOldBaz/pseuds/GoodOldBaz
Summary: A little poem type thing of all the things Bright has gone through in his life.





	Carry On

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before I watched season 6, hence no reference to what happens in season 6

“Carry on,” he heard his mother say, picking him up and setting him on his feet again after a fall.  
“Carry on,” his step-father had said, at age 11, when he watched his mother’s body be lowered into the ground.  
“We’ll just have to carry on,” Cook smiled, patting his shoulder as they moved out of the family home where he had grown up.  
“Carry on,” his teacher had barked, grabbing him by his elbow and pulling him from the floor where the bigger boys had shoved him, cackling over his size and how easy he was to bully.  
“Carry on, Bright, I’m afraid we won’t be needing you today,” he heard his coach say, brushing him aside when the teams were chosen.  
“Carry on!” the captain shouted, as his friends bodies fell all around him, bullets whistling past his ears.  
“Carry on, then,” his superior had ordered, as he failed his physical for the second time.  
“Carry on, carry on,” the words echoed in his mind, sweat dripping down his forehead, working his mind and body until he was sick.  
“Carry on,” he heard the priest say, as he watched what was left of his friend be buried, in the hot Indian evening.  
“Well done, now carry on,” the officer had nodded, when after years of hard work, he was finally promoted.  
“We’ll have to carry on,” he found himself saying, as his daughter lay dead in her bed.  
“Carry on,” he said to himself through gritted teeth, as his wife turned angrily away from him.  
“You always carry on, don’t you, old man?” asked a voice, he wasn’t even sure who’s, as he moved into another empty office.  
“Good, carry on,” he said, dismissing his men after an introductory speech.  
“Carry on, Thursday” he nodded sharply, watching his friend leave his office.  
“Carry on!” he ordered his men, as they went off to find the killer of a young wife.  
“Carry on,” he heard himself whisper, looking through a glass window at the only man who he could truly call his friend, laying in a hospital bed, a bullet in his lung.  
“Yes, right, well, carry on,” he stammered after his attempt at an apology to the young detective constable he was hesitant to admit he respected.  
“Carry on,” he smiled at the young woman who reminded him of his daughter.  
“Carry on,” he choked, sick at the evil he had to deal with every day.  
“You know, you don’t always have to carry on,” the voice of a young blonde echoed in his ears, her gentle hand touching his shoulder.


End file.
